


A Night In

by CloudySkyes



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Romantic Fluff, Sappy Watson, Slice of Life, a quiet night in, up for interpretation really!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 15:59:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16998099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudySkyes/pseuds/CloudySkyes
Summary: A short sweet little slice of life fic. A smitten, very sleepy Watson and a distracted but loving Holmes.This is my first fic ever, I am terrified and excited to be putting it out there! Please please do comment with thoughts if you would!Have this self-indulgent piece of florid fluff!~Skye





	A Night In

A comfortable evening in London during the summertime was not so rare an occurrence as to be utterly remarkable, but a night so truly warm and amiable as June the 23rd, 1892, I am pressed to recall. It had been altogether a surprisingly mild and breezy day, the windows at Baker street were thrown open and the lace danced gently in the night air. The noise of the street was low enough to barely brush against my perception, and my thoughts were all too inclined to lazy slowness to take much notice of anything that was not my own relaxation. 

My dressing gown was tied about my waist and the evening paper folded in my lap, forgotten as I leaned languorously against the arm of the sofa. After a week of positively scorching weather, the ability to wear a robe and not be so uncomfortable as to wish for death was a godsend. The remains of a delightful baked haddock graced the dinner table, which we had polished off not half an hour before. I say we, as there was one other occupant of the room, who even now distractedly pressed his fingers to the arches of my stockinged feet: my dear Mister Sherlock Holmes. 

The impromptu foot massage came about more as a distraction for his hands than any great desire for my comfort. I had taken up rather more of the couch than was my share in my post-meal stupor, and Mr. Holmes had plucked my feet from the couch and placed them in his lap to toy with rather than sit in his customary armchair. The casual intimacy was more full of warming cheer than any dinner or summer's eve I care to remember. The cases currently on the docket were nothing more than toys for his brain, nothing urgent or -truthfully- interesting enough to be transcribed as one of his public adventures, but I could see him mulling over their unique intricacies all the same. The gentle, penetrating focus of his stare on the mantelpiece betrayed to me that his mind was far from the sitting room, my company and the slow digestion of a fish dinner. However, the mere physical presence of him, his willingness to be so idly employed while working on a case was testament to his genuine desire to be close and provide pleasant companionship. While seemingly inscrutable to some, Holmes has never been anything but endearingly transparent to me. 

As amusing as I found watching the cogs of such a formidable mind turn, with the agreeable climate, a full stomach, and such relaxing- albeit absent minded- attention paid to my feet, I found myself beginning to doze intermittently. In bouts of wakefulness I noted some small differences to my situation. The first time I woke, Holmes had acquired and lit a pipe, which he smoked in his left hand while his right continued to idly toy with my feet. But his eyes remained ever fixed on the mantel, pacing relentlessly the pathways of his mind. I deemed sleepily that any attempt at interaction with him remained hopeless, and I dozed once more. I half-woke upon a sudden change of stimuli. The hand so consistently wandering about my feet was now still, even with my eyes closed I felt the steady, piercing regard of Holmes turn upon me and my drowsy state. His hand settled warmly on my ankle, and through barely parted lids I saw his gaze fall tenderly on my face, note my ill-concealed wakefulness, and I watched as his eyes turned up in a wry, wondrous smile. I couldn’t help but return the unspoken sentiment with my own affectionate grin, and with a gentle pat at my ankle and the flash of a toothy grin at me Holmes settled himself back into the sofa cushion and closed his own eyes with a sigh. I too closed my eyes, only to open them slowly and carefully not a minute later, wary of detection, to observe Holmes at rest. 

When seeing Holmes in motion and hot on a case, one might think him a locomotive. His brain a steam engine supplying him with endless forward momentum and boundless creative energies. I have seen him climb trees, sprint over long distances and enter the most tricky and dangerous of situations at a run and without a second thought for slowing down. Many have expressed sympathy to me, pitying me for how exhausting this man must be to live with, a tornado of ill-organized zest and scientific ardor. They are not entirely wrong, there are times when living with Holmes, it would seem best to invest in good thick cotton ear plugs and a stiff drink (we shall, of course, ignore that frequently I am too caught up in his excitement to brook much argument. This musing is for my own journal after all, I shall have to bear no public censure or embarrassment for such an admittance. His mind is intoxicating). However, I would see those critics faces when observing Holmes at rest. His whole body becomes lead, he rests with as much skill as he applies to any of his areas of particular interest. There are times when I have come home to him asleep or at rest in his armchair and have been briefly concerned for his safety, as he can look so catatonic as to pass for dead. This was one of those full-body relaxations, he had employed every muscle in a stretch that had my feet nearly tumbling from his lap, before becoming languid and loose, heavy in limb and lazy in nature. 

Looking upon his contended face my heart grew warm and glad, almost more than I could bear to feel in that moment. To have the regard, the trust of this man so fully, and to know that he knew how fervently I regarded him in return. To have, dare I say, the love of Mister Sherlock Holmes, is a more potent tonic than any medicine I have known the use of. With another minute’s silent regard of the restful Holmes, my own eyelids drooped once more, and I surrendered to the most peaceful of rests. 

At some wee hour of the morning I awoke to a barely grey sky and a stiff neck. I was alone on the couch and the gaslights had been dimmed, but a crocheted blanket had been efficiently tucked around my legs and torso, and a pillow put beneath my head. I saw the light on in Holmes’ study, evidence that the rest for him had been a short one before he had been called to the mental demands of his current work. I watched the light flicker and thought I heard the faint scratching of his quill. Pulling up the blanket farther, and relishing this rather more distant, but still somehow no less intimate companionship, I lost myself to sleep. Before I dreamt, I reflected. How lucky would a man be to live his life with Sherlock Holmes. I hazard a guess, just about as lucky as one John H. Watson must be.


End file.
